


Pillow Fort

by Tiofrean



Category: The Lord of the Rings (Movies), The Lord of the Rings - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Blow Jobs, Boys In Love, Established Relationship, Fluff, Fluff and Smut, Fresh Relationship, Frottage, Happy, M/M, Pillow & Blanket Forts
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-05-18
Updated: 2019-05-18
Packaged: 2020-03-07 08:12:22
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,904
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18869242
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Tiofrean/pseuds/Tiofrean
Summary: While being confined to his, err... hisking'sbedchambers after twisting his ankle, Faramir gets spectacularly bored. Anor is not letting up, its heat beating down on Minas Tirith and making the steward miserable. He would love to go outside, but the balcony within his reach is scalding and very much inhabitable.That is, until Faramir gets a splendid idea he decides to go with.





	Pillow Fort

**Author's Note:**

> Okay, so while I was writing the previous fic, MermaidSheenaz said that a particular scene brought Faramir in a pillow fort to her mind. Naturally, I took it as the challenge it wasn't, and here we are. 
> 
> Big thanks to her for betaing it and for giving me the idea in the first place. 
> 
> Have some silly fluff, y'all! <3

It was a lovely day in Gondor - the sun was shining brightly, there was not a cloud in the sky, and even the wind had disappeared somewhere, probably gone to howl between the high peaks of Ered Nimrais… At least, that was how it looked like for Faramir, who had been confined inside the citadel for the past week. 

A week earlier, he had misstepped during his sword practice and stumbled down a small hill. It was not his fault - really, only Aragorn was to be blamed for this, because he had used every dirty trick in his repertoire to unbalance his steward. Unfortunately, blaming the king for cheating was not in Faramir’s books, so he had  gracefully suffered through three hours of the House of Healing, until the healers had declared that his ankle had been twisted and needed some serious resting. The  _ serious _ had been added to the sentence at the king’s demand, even if Faramir himself had declared that he had been fine. 

And here he was now, confined inside Minas Tirith, forbidden to go anywhere further than the walls of the palace - the palace, which was positively stifling in all the summer heat beating down on it from all angles. It was hard to stand at this point - the shadow inside the building provided no respite, because even there, between the old stones made hot with prolonged exposure to sunlight, the air was too warm for comfort. He would have gone outside to seek some relief from the scorching hot summer, but he had already tried it once, and the lengthy talking-to he had received from the healer was just not worth it. 

Sighing, Faramir eyed the balcony - it was spacious, almost as long as the king’s quarters. Yes,  _ king’s,  _ because Aragorn had decided some time ago that if he was responsible for his steward’s injury, he would take care of him in the most fitting way. 

Faramir had wanted to say something else about the matter, something concerning the appropriateness of housing one’s steward inside the royal bedchambers, but had bitten his tongue hard when  Aragorn had looked at him with eyes so gentle he had found himself melting. Faramir had a soft spot for his king, just like Aragorn had a soft spot for his steward - a fact he had admitted on the evening of the day the accident had occurred. 

They had been drinking that evening. Drinking and laughing, and when the king’s face had turned pink with merriment, when his hand had been shaking so much with barely withheld laughter that he had troubles stopping himself from spilling the contents of his cup, Faramir had blurted something that he had hoped had been too low to be heard. But, Aragorn had heard him. Before Faramir had really known what had happened, he had been holding his king in his arms, tasting the mead heavy on the royal lips as Aragorn had kissed him senseless. 

In the morning, they had woken up in the bed, tangled together beneath the sheets,  with uncertainty surrounding them like a thick fog preceding a wet dawn. 

_ I hope you do not regret what happened… _

_ Never. Do you, my king?  _

_ I wish to remember it forever. _

Standing in the king’s chambers now, Faramir smiled, remembering that day. It had been beautiful, just like this one, but a lot cooler. Today, it seemed, the sun was bent on scorching everything its light fell upon, be it trees, grass or men. Even the horses - bred by the Rohirrim, used to harsh winters and stifling summers - were not keen on cooperating, so riding out was not an option. 

With a heavy sigh, Faramir stared longingly at the balcony. He would have loved to go on it, lie down and stretch out, but the sun was merciless today. He knew he would be forced to get off before he started to really enjoy the fresh air. He knew, he had tried it once already - the ensuing sunburn had not been amusing in the least, even if Aragorn had declared that his usually pale complexion had improved a bit. Faramir was, however, not inclined to improve it any further, especially not on this hot as a sizzling pan balcony. 

With a sigh, he looked around the king’s chambers. His gaze fell upon one of the blankets they had used before to stave off the chill of the evening, and a plan formed in his head. Smiling, the steward moved to grab the soft fabric, already knowing what to do with it. 

 

-&-

 

King Elessar was done sitting in his throne and listening to the complaints of the farmers. The matter was a trifle, a misunderstanding concerning one of the pear trees growing on the line between the two men’s properties, shedding fruit on both sides. At first they had been arguing about who the fruit belonged to, then had swiftly moved to shouting at each other about who was supposed to clean up the leaves falling from the tree when the autumn inevitably came. It was the shouting that got to Elessar, and he stood up finally, raising his hands in a placating gesture.    
“My good men,” he said, trying to keep his voice level. “Our tempers are running high right now,”  _ your tempers,  _ Aragorn thought privately, “and so, I think we should break these talks for today and meet up again on the morrow.” He waited for the farmers to calm down and digest what he had just said. 

Contrary to what he expected - they did, in fact, look ready to start a fist fight - the two men bowed and agreed, leaving the throne room quickly. Maybe it was Elessar’s expression, or maybe it was the set of his jaw, but he was glad that they had noticed that his patience with them was running thin. 

Sighing, Aragorn sat down on the throne again, one hand coming up to rub at his forehead. _Why had he insisted on keeping Faramir away from the court? Oh yes, the ankle…_ Oh, how he wished Faramir was with him! His steward had the unique ability of reading Aragorn’s mind - or maybe just his expression - and breaking off whatever talk started to become too heated before it got to either of them. But, the king reckoned, it was his own fault that Faramir was not here now. He _had_ been playing dirty when sparring with him the other day, and the resulting injury was completely his fault. 

“Idris?” Elessar called, looking to the side. A small, big-eyed girl walked in from the adjacent chamber, sketching a small bow.    
“Sire?” She asked, gazing up at him. There was something about her that brought forth images of scared does, and Aragorn made a mental note to ask Faramir about her later.    
“Is there anyone else that I have to receive today?”    
“No, sire. It was the last meeting on your schedule today.” She lowered her eyes shyly. Aragorn grinned.    
“Wonderful. If anyone inquires about me, I am busy and not to be disturbed,” he said, raising from the throne. She nodded and moved to the side to let him pass, closing the door behind him with a screech from the old hinges. 

 

-&-

 

Elessar went straight to his chambers, hoping to find his steward inside. He was well aware of the fact that Faramir was not happy being cooped inside all day, but he could not help it - he feared that the damage done to Faramir’s ankle would get worse had he been allowed to do anything besides resting, and Aragorn just would not have that.  Being a king had its privileges, and one of them was that he could command people around to do his bidding and get some damned  _ rest.  _

Upon entering his private quarters, Aragorn hesitated - Faramir was nowhere to be seen. The bedchamber and the study next to it were empty, as was the bathroom. The king frowned, before his eyes caught the billowing curtain in the doorway to the balcony. Intrigued, Aragorn stepped out, his feet halting almost immediately when he took in the construction that awaited him there. 

On what looked like his own chairs - arranged in a small circle - one of the blankets was artfully draped, creating something of a makeshift tent. Between the chair legs, squished one next to another, a few pillows peeked out, and Aragorn could not help his smile when he realized that they were also his own, borrowed from the bed. 

Grinning idiotically, knowing well who was responsible for this unusual view, Elessar circled the tent, looking for a way to enter it. When he found it finally, conveniently located on the opposite side to let in some of the, admittedly, warm breeze, he was stopped short by the image he was presented with. 

_ Faramir.  _

His steward was lying inside, a modest shirt and a pair of very loose breeches wrapped around his form, bare feet tangled in the furs spread out on the flagstones. His limbs were in disarray, his hair a right mess, and his face had the most ethereal look Aragorn had seen up until then. He appeared to be asleep, breathing shallowly but steadily, scrunching his nose up one second, just to relax with an almost beatific smile quirking the corners of his lips. 

Aragorn hesitated, not keen on disrupting such a beautiful scene, well aware that Faramir had had troubles sleeping lately. Glancing around, the king found one of the chairs pushed up against the wall of the castle, discarded probably because it was too low to be used in construction of Faramir’s little fort. He took it and moved it to the only sliver of shade - a slim shadow provided by one of the columns. It was not enough to shield his whole body - he would have to be standing for that - but Aragorn was not discouraged. He sat down, hiding most of his body from the scorching sun, stretching his legs out a bit.  _ He would have to survive the sizzling heat, but then again, he was an old man, maybe the heat would do his knees some good?  _

Content for the time being,  the king took out his pipe and lit it, immersing himself in watching Faramir as he slept. 

 

-&-

 

Faramir had a most bizarre dream. It was not even the fact that it was unrealistic, it was just…  _ strange.  _ He had known from the start that it was a dream, with the same certainty that spoke to him that the faceless people he dreamed about had identities he recognized. 

He dreamed of the throne room, of him and Aragorn somehow fitting themselves on the throne at the same time, kissing  and getting very indecent, indeed. And… that was the strange part - he would never have done that. He would never try to get on the throne, he would never try to kiss Aragorn on it, and he would never ever try to be frisky while in this particular setup. But, Faramir reckoned, dreams were not reality, and while this particular one was bizarre enough to wake him up, it was also unexpectedly pleasant. Enough to stir one very demanding part of his body and make him feel vaguely uncomfortable even in his fairly loose breeches. 

He stretched out with a sigh, opening his eyes and blinking blearily at the roof of his makeshift tent, wondering how long he had been asleep. The sun was still high in the sky, and Faramir felt so good inside his little fort that he was very disinclined to move even a bit. The images from his dream lingered, making him feel way too warm, however, and the insistent burning in his loins prompted him to send one of his hands downwards. With a languid movement, he adjusted himself through his clothes, shivering slightly when the slow caress made his whole body tingle.  _ Might as well, _ he thought, ready to slip his hand beneath the waistband of his breeches, but an unexpected chuckle made him pause all movements. 

“I gather, it was a very good dream,” Aragorn’s voice drifted around, and Faramir jerked his head up, staring in surprise at the man seated just outside his tent. 

There he was, King Elessar Telcontar, sitting on the discarded chair, smoke rising from his pipe and flowing up to curl around his hair, the glint of mithril upon his brow in stark contrast to the shadows he tried to hide himself in.   
“My king!” Faramir breathed out, half shocked and half mortified, fully aware where his hand was currently residing. He pulled it away hastily - even if they had been together in the past few days, it did not justify such an uncouth act as fondling oneself in the presence of their still very regally dressed ruler. And Aragorn was… regally dressed, that is. He was still wearing his crown and his royal robes, etched with silvery threads and accentuated with small jewels. There was no cape, thankfully, but it was not surprising in such stifling heat.

“Do not stop on my accord,” Aragorn said, a rueful smile stretching his lips.    
“I am so sorry, I did not mean to- ...what?” The steward stared at him, his mouth agape.    
“I said,” the king started, waving his hand around, indicating Faramir’s form still very much sprawled atop the furs. “Do not stop on my accord. You make a very enticing picture, my dear.” 

Faramir continued to stare at him, not moving an inch. It was almost ridiculous, the way Faramir froze completely. He was not sure what Aragorn expected, but it could not possibly be this…  _ display of vulgarity  _ the king’s tone and gaze indicated. Faramir opened his mouth once again to ask “what”, but Aragorn rolled his eyes - actually  _ rolled  _ them, like a young lad would - and got up. He set the pipe carefully down on the chair, balancing it against the backrest so that it would not roll over, before he turned back to the steward. With a grin etched firmly on his face, and to Faramir’s greatest surprise, the king crouched in front of the tent and crawled inside, forcing Faramir to shuffle to the side to accommodate them both in the small space the tent provided. 

Eyes wide, Faramir just looked at him, taking in the rakish smile and happily crinkling eyes. Aragorn waited a long moment, before he leaned forward and captured Faramir’s lips in a tentative kiss.  It was all so new between them still, so fresh and tender, but the delicacy of their bond did not dissuade the king in the slightest. He let out a small groan, adjusted the angle, and promptly turned the kiss into a heated tangling of tongues.

Feeling just a bit overwhelmed, Faramir reached out with his hands, finding purchase on his king’s shoulders. The robes Aragorn was wearing were velvety, soft to the touch, and Faramir rubbed his palms against them, his fingers traveling up until they encountered a mess of unruly hair.  He let his fingertips push into the wild mane, smiling when he heard Aragorn’s content and gruffy moan. Something occurred to him suddenly, a memory from their first evening together, blurred by alcohol and colored by desire. He raked his fingers a bit higher and grabbed a handful of hair, then tugged at it gently. It was not enough to hurt - far from that - but, the reaction it provoked in Aragorn was surprisingly strong. 

Aragorn broke their kiss and tilted his head back, following the movement of Faramir’s hand or asking for more, the steward did not know, but he tugged a bit harder, immediately soothing the sting with careful fingertips. Aragorn’s mouth fell open and a curious sort of noise escaped him - a sound upon which his heated dreams would be constructed from then on, Faramir decided immediately.   
“Faramir…” Aragorn gasped, more breath than actual word, and the steward raked his fingers up again to repeat the movement, when his fingers encountered hard metal, and he froze. Faramir pulled away slightly, his head digging into one of the fluffy pillows strewn around, his gaze upon Aragorn. Suddenly, he was almost painfully reminded that the man he was with, the man who was kissing him so passionately, was indeed King Elessar Telcontar, Aragorn Arathornion, the King of Gondor and Arnor. All the titles crashed upon Faramir with the strength of an angry warg, and he closed his eyes briefly to compose himself. 

What they had been doing so far, it was all in the moonlight, covered by shadows and somehow detached from reality. Here, now, in broad daylight, it seemed so inappropriate to just grab a handful of his king’s hair and tug at it only to hear him moan in delight. 

When he opened his eyes again, Aragorn was watching him calmly, his gray eyes shining like stars, his tongue absentmindedly sweeping over his lower lip.    
“What troubles you, my steward?” The king asked, a small frown marring his brow right beneath the edge of the winged crown. Faramir took a deep breath, then let it out slowly.    
“You… you are the king. I am the steward… It seems…  _ uncouth, _ somehow,” he said, inclining his head and indicating the crown. Aragorn frowned, looking up as if he could see the crown, before his gaze returned to Faramir.    
“I memory serves me right, you did not have such qualms about being appropriate yesterday evening,” he murmured, the corners of his mouth quirking up minutely. Faramir blushed, hearing that, and Aragorn leaned in, then placed a soft kiss on his forehead. 

“Dear heart,” he started, pulling away slightly, only enough to catch his steward’s gaze. “I could undress right here and now, for you know I care little about how the maids might find us,” he said, diving down again, this time stealing a kiss right from Faramir’s lips.    
“You cannot do such a thing!” The steward answered, his shocked expression bordering on scandalized. Aragorn chuckled.    
“I  _ could, _ I am the king, after all,” Elessar retorted, grinning.  “But I do believe another treatment is in order…” he trailed off, looking down the expanse of Faramir’s body, still conveniently lying mostly under his own. 

Glancing back up, Aragorn lowered himself carefully atop his steward,  his mouth going to Faramir’s ear. He kissed it gently, traced the outline with his tongue, then started to murmur in a low voice.    
“Tell me about the dream,” he asked, his words sending shivers cascading down Faramir’s spine.  “What did you dream about, Faramir? I know it was a pleasant dream…” With that, one of Elessar’s hands skimmed down Faramir’s body, brushing over the flat planes of his stomach, rumpling the fabric of the shirt on its way up. Faramir hissed when those same fingers slipped underneath the cloth and grazed bare skin. 

“Aragorn…”    
“Tell me… it must have been something indecent and utterly  _ delicious, _ going by the state you woke up in…” The king purred - actually  _ purred, _ right into Faramir’s ear - and the steward could not help but moan at that, the heated image from his dream coming to his mind again.    
“It was…” he mumbled, biting his lip, arching his neck when Aragorn slid his mouth over it.    
“Wild? Satisfactory?” Elessar supplied, both hands pushing Faramir’s shirt up, exposing more of his warm flesh.    
_ “Vulgar.” _ Faramir sighed, feeling Aragorn shift on top of him.    
“Really?” The king inquired, pulling back slightly and arching an eyebrow at his steward. “Tell me, then.” 

Huffing, Faramir squirmed in place, because Aragorn started to move his body downwards, mouth busy kissing Faramir’s chest through the shirt, teeth scraping at the soft fabric hard enough to be felt. Aragorn kept moving, until he finally arrived at Faramir’s bare stomach. He pressed his mouth there, tenderly almost, before he let his tongue play along the skin, causing waves of pleasure to crash inside Faramir’s body.    
“Was I in that dream also? Or was there another one and this is the reason you would not tell me of it?” Elessar asked, the words getting lost against Faramir’s ribs when he inclined his head just so.    
“No, no!” The steward answered hastily, eager to assure his king. “It was only you and I, no other people whatsoever,” he practically hiccuped the last word, because Aragorn chose this particular moment to bite him none-too-gently on his side. 

“I jest. What did we do?” Aragorn pressed, hiding his smile in Faramir’s hip. He could tell by the trembling that had taken residence in his steward’s body that he would get any answer he wanted soon.    
“We were kissing…”    
“Only kissing?”    
“No…” Faramir shook his head distractedly, biting his lip hard enough to turn it white. “Not only kissing…”    
“We were making love, then,” Aragorn supplied , licking a slow stripe from Faramir’s ribs all the way down to the waistband of his breeches. The ensuing moan was completely worth it to crane his neck at an awkward angle. 

“What is so indecent about that, dear heart?” Aragorn asked, looking up at a very flushed steward, his fingers hooking behind the material, eager to pull it down. The answer he received was muttered too quietly to be heard, however. “Come again?”    
“We were in the throne room.” Faramir said, louder this time. Aragorn paused, staring at him, allowing himself a moment to take in the wild blush and messy, red hair.  _ Valar, but was Faramir handsome… _

Unbidden, images of him and Faramir making wild love in the throne room,  _ on the throne, _ flooded Aragorn’s mind, and he gave a low moan.  The prospect was entirely welcome and, dare he say it, completely possible to execute. But first, he needed to do something about Faramir’s perspective on blasphemy concerning regalia.  And he had just the right idea. 

Gripping the waistband of his steward’s breeches, Aragorn pulled them down,  revealing the prize within. Hot and hard - the sight was so mouthwatering, the king could not help himself, and bent down to give it a small lick. Faramir’s whole body twitched at that, a moan escaping his lips, and Aragorn looked up, meeting the fiery gaze directed straight at him. Faramir’s eyes shifted between Elessar’s face and the crown above, his lip turning white again from the force of the teeth capturing it. Aragorn smiled widely and promptly did what he intended to do all along - he dove down, one hand grabbing Faramir’s manhood, while his lips wrapped around the tip. 

The shuddering groan that left his steward was so delicious, Aragorn hoped to remember it for a long time. He set to work, withdrawing for a moment, only to lower his head again and take in more of Faramir’s length. The scent,  _ the taste, _ were bound to drive him insane shortly, but Elessar did not want to stop. He only paused briefly when he felt something touch his ear gently. He opened his eyes - having no recollection as to when he had closed them - just to see Faramir’s hands hovering uncertainly next to his head.    
“Aragorn…” the steward breathed out, his voice a soft whisper, and Aragorn was ready to continue with his task, when gente fingers grasped him again. “Wait.” 

Faramir was torn. As much as he loved what Aragorn was doing - his touch never failed to make the young man feel as if fires of Mordor itself were eating him whole in the most pleasurable of ways - he could not get past the image of his king _serving_ him so. Not _yet,_ in any case, and he halted him, before Elessar could go on.   
“Come here,” Faramir murmured, the words low because his voice was failing him. “Please?” He added as an afterthought, to which Aragorn grinned, releasing him. 

The king crawled up his body again, settling himself neatly half-atop Faramir, and the steward was helpless to stop the shiver that ran through his frame. He was well aware of the state he was in, he could feel the moisture gathering and dripping down his shaft,  and in his desire-addled brain, he had only one picture. A picture that confused him and aroused him at the same time. Elessar was still fully dressed, and if he kept on pressing Faramir bodily down, his precious regal robes would get filthy. Not wanting that, but not keen on stopping the whole exploit either, Faramir’s brain found the only logical way of remedying it. 

He let his own hands travel low, sneaking between their bodies, and pushed them behind the velvety material that was separating him from his king’s body. With his gaze stuck to Aragorn’s, he somehow managed to blindly find the lacings of Aragorn’s leggings, then tugged them loose. The king smiled again, bowing his head to kiss him deeply, while one of his hands helped Faramir to push his leggings down and out of the way. This time, when Aragorn rocked his hips and pinned him down, there was only the heat of their flesh meeting. 

Faramir lost track of his thoughts shortly after that. He was aware of Aragorn moving against him, of his own body rocking up, of his hands fisting and, no doubt, wrinkling the soft fabric covering Aragorn’s back, but suddenly, it lost all importance. What mattered was only the way Aragorn shuddered above him, the pitch of his voice getting deeper and the incoherent, raspy words he kept mumbling into Faramir’s neck. 

It all ended to soon, and yet, it lasted a small lifetime. The both of them, panting and sweating, utterly spent and collapsed on top of each other. After a moment, Aragorn slid to the side, lying more comfortably, one arm and a leg still hooked over Faramir’s body. He hummed, hiding his face in his steward’s neck, kissing the first sliver of skin his lips encountered. His breathing was still a bit erratic, and it fanned over Faramir’s skin in warm puffs, making him shiver.    
“So… how did your day go, my dear steward?” Aragorn asked, his voice light and filled with mirth. Faramir chuckled.    
“As you can see, my king, I was busy lazying around just as you have instructed.” 

Aragorn raised his head at this, looking imploringly at the tent around them.    
“I would not call this lazying around…  you are quite gifted when it comes to construction.”   
“Oh, I’m not so sure…” Faramir bit his lip, glancing at the many pillows strewn around.    
“Now, do not sell yourself so short! This fort is certainly a masterpiece, even if made of blankets and pillows,” Aragorn declared, leaning up for a kiss.    
“Fort, huh?” The steward huffed, incredulous. “It is more like a tent, surely!”    
“Nonsense!” Aragorn exclaimed, propping himself up on one elbow. “It has a king and a steward in it, does it not? It is a regular castle, then!” He declared, somehow managing to say it all with a straight face. His composure crumbled, however, and a few seconds later, he was muffling his hiccuping laugh in Faramir’s shirt, shaking from head to toe. 

“Your highness?” A soft, decidedly female voice asked from somewhere inside the room, and Faramir froze, his eyes going wide. Aragorn did not seem fazed in the least, quickly grabbing one edge of a spare blanket and pulling it over the both of them hastily, covering any incriminating details. He looked questioningly at Faramir, a smile still present on his lips, and the steward nodded.  _ The staff was paid to serve, not to judge. And anyway, one day they would be discovered… probably. Definitely. May as well get it over with.   _   
“We are in the castle, Idris!” Aragorn answered, just loudly enough to be heard by the girl. She walked closer, her shadow falling on the roof of the makeshift tent and moving alongside it, until she appeared in front of the opening. 

“My lords,” she curtsied, barely looking at them, keeping her gaze low. Faramir envied her the composure - she could probably beat Mithrandir in a game of cards.   
“What is it, Idris? I said I am not to be disturbed,” Aragorn reminded her, but his voice was not scolding. The girl nodded.   
“I am sorry, sire, but there is an urgent missive from Belfalas, and the courier said it could not wait even a moment,” she explained, bowing her head. Aragorn sighed.   
“Thank you.” He turned back to Faramir, apology evident in his eyes. “I am sorry, dear heart,” he murmured, taking Faramir’s hand and kissing the knuckles.   
“What are you sorry for? You are the king and this is your duty…”  
“Still… I would have liked to stay here with you.” Aragorn said, stealing a quick kiss. Once they broke apart, Faramir cast a worried look in the direction of Idris, finding the girl still looking down but smiling serenely. Raising an eyebrow at her - this was definitely _not_ the reaction he had been anticipating - the steward watched as Elessar pulled away and, after a brief adjustment of his clothes, crawled out of the tent.   
“I shall be back as quickly as I can,” the king announced, sending a wink his way, before he turned to the girl. “Come on, then, show me the letter.” 

With a sigh, Faramir fell back on the pillows, blinking at the roof of his tent…  _ castle.  _ This day turned out very differently than he had thought it would. And there was still the evening to look forward to, if Aragorn’s sly expression was anything to go by. 


End file.
